by Nora Roberts
when applied to him.
As she bypassed his garden gate for the driveway, she could see his scarred, worn-down boots poking out from under the pitiful little car.
"Fuck me!"
Her eyes widened, then danced with humor at the steady and imaginative stream of curses that flew from beneath the car.
"Bloody buggerin' hell. Stuck like the cock of a cur in a bitch." There was the ping of metal striking metal, the crash of a tool falling. "Biggest pile of shit outside of the pigsty."
With that, Murphy shoved himself from under the car. His face, smeared with grease, fired with frustration, underwent several rapid transformations when he spotted Shannon.
Consternation turned to embarrassment, and that to a delightfully sheepish grin.
"Didn't know you were there." He wiped the back of his hand over his chin, smearing grease and a trace of blood. "I'd have taken a bit more care with my language."
"I've been known to use a few of the same words," she said easily. "Though not with that nice, rolling lilt. Having problems?"
"Could be worse." He sat where he was a moment, then unfolded himself and rose in what was nearly balletic grace. "I've promised my nephew Patrick I'd get it on the road for him, but it's going to take a bit longer than I thought."
She studied the car again. "If you can get that running, you're working miracles."
"It's just the transmission. I can fix that." He gave the car one final scowl. "It's not my job to make it pretty. Thank Jesus."
"I won't keep you. I just-you're bleeding." She closed the distance between them in a leap, snagging his hand and fretting over the shallow slice in his thumb that was seeping blood.
"Tore it some on the bleeding-on one of the bolts."
"The one that was stuck like-"
"Aye." His color rose, amusing her. "On that one."
"You'd better clean it up." It was her turn to be embarrassed by the way she'd clamped on to his hand. She let it drop.
"I'll get to it." Watching her, he took a bandanna out of his back pocket to staunch the flow. "I was wondering when you'd come by. You've been avoiding me."
"No, I've been busy. I did mean to get this back to you before."
He took the jacket she handed him, tossed it onto the hood of the car. "It's no problem. I have another." With a half smile on his face he leaned against the car and took out a cigarette. "Sure and looking lovely today, Shannon Bodine. And safe you are as well, since I'm too filthy to bother you. Did you dream of me?"
"Don't start that, Murphy."
"You did." He lighted a match, cupping his hand over the tip of the cigarette. "I had dreams of you from now, and from before. They'd be comforting if you were in the bed beside me."
"Then you're going to be uncomfortable, because that's not going to happen."
He only tugged on his ear and smiled at her. "I saw you a few days ago, walking across the fields with Maggie. You looked more easy with her."
"We were just going over to her shop. I wanted to see it."
His brow shot up. "And she showed you?"
"That's right. We made a paperweight."
"We." Now his mouth fell open. "You touched her tools and your fingers aren't broken? I see how it was," he decided. "You overpowered her and tied her up first."
Feeling a bit smug, Shannon plucked at her sleeve. "It wasn't necessary to resort to violence."
"Must be those fairy eyes of yours." He angled his head. "There's not as much sorrow in them now. You're healing."
"I think about her every day. My mother. I was away from her and Dad so much the last few years."
"It's the nature of things, Shannon, for children to grow and move out on their own."
"I keep thinking I should have called more often, made more time to go out there. Especially after my father died. I knew how short life could be after that, but I still didn't make the time."
She turned away to look at the flowers that were blooming riotously in the softness of spring. "I lost them both within a year, and I thought I'd never get over the misery of that. But you do. The hurt dulls, even when you don't want it to."
"Neither of them would want you to mourn too long. Those who love us want to be remembered, but with joy."
She looked over her shoulder. "Why is it so easy to talk to you about this? It shouldn't be." Turning to face him, she shook her head. "I was going to dump that jacket off, figuring you'd be off somewhere. And I was going to stay away from you."
He dropped the cigarette on the drive, crushed it out. "I'd have come after you, when I'd reckoned you'd had time to settle."
"It's not going to work. Part of me is almost sorry, because I'm beginning to think you're one in a million. But it's not going to work."
"Why don't you come over here and kiss me, Shannon?" The invitation was light, friendly, and confident. "Then tell me that nonsense again."
"No." She said it firmly, then a laugh bubbled out. "That kind of cockiness should irritate the hell out of me." She tossed her hair back. "I'm going."
"Come inside, have a cup of tea. I'll wash up." He stepped forward, but took care not to touch her. "Then I'll kiss you."
The shout of joy had him checking. Looking around, he spotted Liam scrambling up the driveway. With an effort, Murphy put desire on hold.
"Well, here's a likely lad come to visit." Murphy crouched down for the noisy kiss. "How's it all going then, Liam? I'd haul you up, boy-o," he told Liam as the child lifted his arms. "But your mother'd have my skin for it."
"How about me?"
Liam shifted affections and climbed happily into Shannon's arms. She settled him onto her hip as Rogan turned into the drive.
"He's like a bullet out of a gun when he gets within ten yards of this place." Rogan lifted a brow as he scanned the little car. "How's this going?"
"A great deal more than slow. Shannon was just coming in for a cup of tea. Will you have a cup?"
"We wouldn't mind that, would we, Liam?"
"Tea," Liam said, grinning, and kissed Shannon dead on the mouth.
"It's the idea of the cake that might go with it that makes him affectionate," Rogan said dryly. "It's you I
was coming to see, Shannon. You've saved me a bit of a walk."
"Oh." It looked as though she were stuck now. Taking it philosophically, she carried Liam into the house.
"Go on into the kitchen," Murphy told them. "I need to clean up."
While Liam chattered in earnest gibberish, Shannon settled into the kitchen with Rogan. It surprised her to see him fill the kettle, measure out tea, heat the pot. She supposed it shouldn't have, but he was so ... smooth, she decided. His clothes might have been casual, but everything about him spoke of money, privilege, and power.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said quickly, before she could change her mind.
"Of course."
"What is a man like you doing here?"
He smiled, so quickly, so stunningly, she had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open. That smile, she realized, was a major weapon.
"Not an office building," he began, "not a theater or a French restaurant in sight."
"Exactly. Not that it's not a beautiful spot, but I keep expecting someone to say 'cut,' then the screen will go blank and I'll realize I've been walking through a movie."
Rogan opened a tin, took out one of Murphy's biscuits to entertain Liam. "My initial reaction to this part of the world wasn't quite as romantic as that. The first time I came out here, I was cursing every muddy mile. Christ, it seemed it would never cease to rain, and a long way from Dublin is the west, in more than miles. Here, let me take him. He'll have crumbs all over you."
"I don't mind." Shannon snuggled Liam closer. "But you settled here," she prompted Rogan.
"We've a home here, and a home in Dublin. I'd wanted the new gallery, been working on the concept of it before I met Maggie. And after I had her under contract, fell in love with her, badgered her into marrying me, the concept becam
e Worldwide Galleries Clare."
"You mean it was a business decision?"
"That was secondary. She's rooted here. If I'd torn her out, it would have broken her heart. So we have Clare, and Dublin, and it contents us."
He rose, going to the kettle that was shooting steam, to finish making the tea. "Maggie showed me the sketch you did of Liam. It takes skill to put so much into a few lines and shadings."
"Charcoal's simple, and kind of a hobby of mine."
"Ah, a hobby." Keeping his cards close to his vest, Rogan turned when Murphy came in. "Is your music a hobby, Murphy?"
"It's my heart." He stopped by the table to ruffle Liam's hair. "Stealing my biscuits. You'll have to pay for that." He snatched the boy up, tickling his ribs and sending Liam into squeals of laughter.
"Truck," Liam demanded.
"You know where it is, don't you? Go on then and get it." Murphy set Liam down, patted his butt. "Sit on the floor in there and play with it. If I hear anything I shouldn't, I'm coming after you."
As Liam toddled off, Murphy opened a cabinet for cups. "He's partial to an old wooden truck I had as a boy," he explained. "Partial enough that it can keep him quiet and out of trouble for ten or fifteen minutes at a go. Sit down, Rogan, I'll tend to the rest of this."
Rogan joined Shannon at the table, smiled at her again. "I had a look at the painting you've finished, the one of the standing stones? I hope you don't mind."
"No." But her brow creased.
"You do some, and Brie wasn't happy about my insisting on going up to look when she mentioned it to me. She said I was to tell you myself I'd invaded your privacy, and apologize for it."
"It doesn't matter, really." She looked up at Murphy as he filled cups. "Thanks."
"I'll offer you a thousand pounds for it."
She was grateful she'd yet to sip tea. Surely she'd have choked on it. "You're not serious."
"I'm always serious about art. If you've anything else finished, or in progress, I'd be interested in having first look."
She was beyond baffled. "I don't sell my paintings."
Rogan nodded, sipped contentedly at his tea. "That's fine. I'll sell them for you. Worldwide would be pleased to represent your work."
Speech was impossible, at least until her mind stopped spinning. She knew she had talent. She would never have risen so far at Ry-Tilghmanton if she'd been mediocre. But painting was for Saturday mornings, or vacations.
"We'd very much like," Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, "to feature your work in the Clare gallery."
"I'm not Irish." Because her voice wasn't strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. "Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I'm not Irish." That statement was met with respectful silence. "I'm American," she insisted, a little desperately.
His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. "If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms."
"That's how he got Maggie," Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. "But I wish you wouldn't sell him that painting, Shannon, until I've seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him."
"I don't think I want to sell it. I don't know. I've never had to think about this." Confused, she pushed at her hair. "Rogan, I'm a commercial artist."
"You're an artist," he corrected. "And you're foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones-"